


Jolly Roger

by 221b_hound



Series: Lock and Key [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Clothed Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Pirate Sherlock, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Restraints, Rimming, Royal Naval Officer John, Sailor - Freeform, Sexual Fantasy, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-04-02
Packaged: 2018-03-20 20:39:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3664176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John said the military fantasy with Sherlock in uniform and panties was one of his top three sex fantasies. Sherlock finally asks about the other two. John gets him to lock the doors and there on the sofa tells Sherlock the saucy seafaring tale of the Pirate King and the Naval Officer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jolly Roger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AtlinMerrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/gifts).



> This is dedicated to Atlinmerrick. Just because.

John was on the sofa, his feet propped up on the coffee table in a pair of thick woollen socks. Those socks were a revenge gift from Sherlock – they were lavender with ugly violets woven into them and had been presented as a cunningly folded 'bouquet' because 'flowers didn't seem appropriate'. John had stared at the hideous things a good long while before thanking Sherlock politely and then tossing them in the back of his cupboard. Today was either the day before wash day and these were the only socks John had left, Sherlock decided, or exposure to them had inured him to their ugliness. Or perhaps John was feeling magnanimous because he'd bought Sherlock revenge underpants. A candy pink pair of women's cotton briefs with 'sexy' written across the arse of them in purple glitter. Sherlock had refused to wear them.

John was frowning, at the television rather than the socks. His favoured team in whatever this inane pastime was that polluted the atmosphere of their living room, was clearly performing poorly. John would probably welcome a distraction. And Sherlock had curiosity that needed to be satisfied.

"What are the other two?" he asked.

"What?" John looked up at him, brow crinkled. It made John look like a quizzical gnome and, against all reason, `Sherlock absolutely adored it.

"You said your fantasy of me in uniform with the panties was in the top three."

"Oh," said John, "Ah." He didn't colour – John was not generally a blusher – but his expression was intriguingly a combination of embarrassment and sudden lasciviousness.

"Should I remind you that I found Panty Corporal exceedingly erotic?"

John laughed as his eyebrows climbed, clearly thinking _Panty Corporal?_ But his breathing quickened, because he was also clearly remembering the joint wanking session.

"Well," said John, "there is the...um... There's one that I..."

"What?" Sherlock demanded impatiently. He was getting aroused and he hadn't heard a damned word of it yet.

"Your brother told me once you used to want to be a pirate. And eventually that featured rather heavily in… stuff."

"Oh." Sherlock’s eyes were wide and he licked his lip in anticipation, an unconscious mimicking of that habit of John's. Which John was doing now too.

"Tell me," Sherlock breathed, " _Show_ me."

"Now?"

" _Yes_."

"Lock the doors. Lights off," John commanded, muting the telly.

Sherlock obliged and then sat on the edge of the coffee table, facing John. John tugged the socks from his feet.

"Thank god," said Sherlock. At John's amused expression, he said, "They're off-putting."

John wriggled his newly freed toes – Sherlock resisted bending down to bite them, and wondered that his libido had become so unruly. Here he was, cock making his tight trousers too tight, and barely containing sexual designs upon John’s feet, and he hadn't even heard the ridiculous story yet.

John settled back on the sofa and closed his eyes – he still couldn’t look at Sherlock while he told this story, no matter how spectacularly the last one had concluded. He cleared his throat, of nerves and for courage, and launched right into it.

"I’m an 18th century British naval officer and after a skirmish at sea, I'm aboard your pirate ship."

"Just you?"

"Yeah. I'm the only one who made it across, leading the charge. You drove the others off and shot their mast off with a cannon..."

"That's very symbolic of me. Or of you."

"Do you want this story or not?"

Sherlock patted John's foot placatingly. John, after an annoyed huff, continued.

"Your crew drag me in front of you on deck and you..."

"What's my name?"

"What?"

"My pirate name?"

John blinked at him. "Aaah."

"I don't have one?" Sherlock was obscurely disappointed.

"You do. It's...silly."

"If I am Captain Panties..." he said warningly.

"No. Um. Captain Brainstorm, if you really have to know. The most cunning, clever and feared pirate on the open seas. Or something. You’ve read Treasure Island, I’m sure you know the drill. You're so good you steal from other pirates and they’re only impressed by it. Tales about you get told all over the world."

Instead of mocking him, Sherlock nodded in complete satisfaction.

"Go on."

John, grinning at Sherlock already being so invested in the fantasy, closed his eyes again and began palming himself through his jeans. Like Sherlock, he was already aroused – because he knew how this story went.

"The crew force me to my knees in front of you, and my uniform is torn, and you're standing there in your thigh boots and breeches, a pirate shirt and a frock coat..."

"Galleon coat."

"Galleon coat, and you say..."

*

_Lieutenant John Watson of His Majesty's Royal Navy is forced to his knees by the crew members of the Pirate Ship Nightshade, a vessel deadly as its namesake. John's dark blue frock coat has suffered indignities, the buttons torn free, and his white shirt is torn too, revealing his chest, glistening with sweat that makes the tattoo of a padlock over his heart shine. He fought hard, once separated from his shipmates, and disarmed many opponents, but no one has died in the fracas. That was not the aim of this sudden one-man raid. John knows he is in deadly peril, but he does not want for courage and he may yet achieve his goal._

_The captain known as Brainstorm looks down on him. Brainstorm is tall, lanky and sardonic as fuck. His boots flare above the knee, emphasising his shapely legs, and his breeches are tight around strong thighs and slender hips. The fro- er -galleon coat is undone and the pirate’s cream cotton shirt flows over the lean musculature of the man. The devil has a tricorner hat at a jaunty angle on his head, but the shade it casts does not conceal the merry, pale eyes looking at him with such lively speculation._

_"You seem to have miscalculated, good lieutenant.”_

_"Not by my reckoning," says John, held on his knees but chin lifted in defiance._

_"You thought to capture my ship single-handed?"_

_"I thought to offer you my services," says John._

_That makes the captain take greater interest. "How so...?" But then he rakes John with a piercing look that seems to see and know all. "You wanted a life of adventure and you thought the navy would give it to you, but you have been disappointed..."_

*

"Deduction doesn't work like that."

"Do you want to hear this wank fantasy or not?"

Sherlock looked at John gently palming himself, and realised he was mirroring the gesture in front of his own trousers. "I'm sorry. Please continue."

*

_"So, you want to join my crew?"_

_John's defiance and determination combine and he nods fiercely while saying, "I'm a crack shot and have some medi..."_

_"Tell you what," says Brainstorm with a smile full of sin, "I'll make you a deal."_

_"Anything." He sounds too eager, he knows, but the life he wants is at his fingertips now._

_"If you can give me the best orgasm of my life, you can join my crew. If I'm disappointed, it's the plank for you."_

_John stares up at this tall pirate and his eyes the colour of sparkling aquamarine, his luscious bow lips drawn into a sneer, hair tumbling in dark waves over his shoulders, and..._

*

"This is more like a romance novel than a porno."

"It's _my_ porno," said John in a surly growl. "Of course you're fucking beautiful in it. Don't pretend you don't know what real pirates were like, and don't get me started on 18th century hygiene. If I want a wank fantasy in which the pirate king bathes regularly, has all his own teeth and somehow keeps them clean, washes his hands after pooping off the poop deck and doesn't have lice, that's what I'll fucking fantasise. All right?"

Sherlock, choosing not to correct John on the function of a poop deck, could concede the need to avoid historical accuracy and opt for rosy, glamorised viewpoints under the circumstances. This perhaps was why detailed fantasies had never worked for him. He got distracted by the accuracy of the data. He preferred to simply use uncomplicated, _real_ scent, taste and texture as sexual aids. Like John’s pillow, or one of his jumpers, or, once – and he didn’t think John knew about this – one of John’s socks, which also conveniently kept the mess contained. (This was after… after all the terrible things that had happened, and John was back at Baker Street, but before they’d finally worked out the time was right for them at last.) John had spent that day grumbling about the washing machine eating one of his socks, and Sherlock had been forced to discreetly dispose of the thing.

John liked... other things. He liked a fitting scenario and could ignore inconvenient details like the necessity of stopping for lube. John liked a story and embellishments and he may not do fancy things with bedding, but he did excellent things with imaginary costuming.

"I see," was all Sherlock said and then, pushing his hand against his cock through his trousers, he leaned over to share a thought and get things back on track. "If it helps, my mental image of you in a torn 18th century naval officer’s uniform makes me want to rub the end of my cock on your nipples and massage your big dick through those tight white breeches. It seems I have a thing about you in uniform."

Perhaps that hadn't been the best tactic to reclaim the moment. John seemed to have a little trouble breathing.

"Does pirate-me have an earring?" Sherlock asked, prompting John back to the story at hand. As it were.

"If you like," John managed to say.

*

_The sunlight glints off the diamond in Brainstorm's ear, and it, too, seems to laugh at John._

_Still. Lieutenant John Watson of the Royal Navy, and wannabe pirate, likes a challenge._

_"Just the **one** orgasm, then?" he asks with a cocky twinkle in his eye. _

_"Oh, ho," breathes the pirate, "I'll hold you to that boast."_

*

"Where's the crew gone?"

"I don't know. Fucked off to scrub the deck. Does it matter?"

"It depends on whether you get off on the idea they're watching us."

"Well, they're swabbing the deck, all right?"

"Of course. I'm sorry. I won't interrupt again."

*

_The captain takes John’s chin in his elegant fingers and tilts the lieutenant’s face upwards, so he can see the crow’s nest._

_"First, you'll need to beat me to the lookout," he says, "For you'll have to be better use to me than orgasms, even if you are good enough with your mouth to join my crew."_

_He releases John’s face and then, with an elated, easy laugh, he leaps onto the ropes and begins to climb._

_John scrambles after, but for all the pirate’s head start, John is agile and fast. He makes it to the top of the mast a few moments ahead of the captain._

*

Sherlock could see John's bare feet flexing against the edge of the coffee table, as though mimicking the action of climbing, barefoot, up the ropes. He decided not to ask John where the lieutenant’s boots had gone. Probably the same way as the crew, eradicated instantly by erotic necessity. For his own part, Sherlock decided to imagine the crew all watching this from the decks. John wasn't so much of an exhibitionist, but Sherlock found the notion of an imaginary audience for this imaginary sex very appealing.

*

_Captain Brainstorm approves of John’s agility and speed with a nod, but the challenge is still in his eye. He stands against the side of the lookout, stance wide to better display the tight trousers pulling across his groin. The bulge there is very noticeable and promisingly large._

_"Suck me," demands the captain, “and make me come. Twice."_

_"Aye, aye, sir!" says John with a good deal more than regulation enthusiasm._

_The lieutenant goes to his knees in the confines of the crow's nest and unbuttons the captain's tight breeches, and as the pirate's cock rises free from the material, John captures the tip of it in his mouth, swirls his tongue around the crown for a moment, and then takes it down, all down, into his mouth, so that he can enjoy the feeling of it swelling to full hardness inside, against his tongue and the back of his throat. He hums his pleasure at the sensation and sucks a little._

_The captain gasps and jerks his hips. "Why, lad, you're full of surprises," he says._

_John pushes his tongue up against the thick cock in his mouth and swallows hard, knowing how the muscle motion will push against the head of the pirate's prick. The captain makes a breathy noise and his knees seem to get wobbly. John braces his hands against the leather of the thigh boots, holding the captain up..._

*

Sherlock could see through his drooping lashes that John's left hand was teasing his own almost full erection and his mouth was open in an echo of his fantasy-self fellating the pirate king, the tip of his tongue pushing against his own lower lip to provide some sensation of pressure. (And Sherlock had to make an effort not to stand right up, pull down his pants and just oblige that hungry mouth with something suitable to suck on.) John’s right hand was pressed flat to the leather coach, and his fingers flexed, making the leather squeak faintly.

_He's using it as an aid, so that it sounds like his hands on the thigh boots. That and his bare feet on the table like he's climbing. It's just like wearing the dog tags last time, so he can hear the clink. External stimulation makes the fantasy more real for him._

Sherlock could almost tell when John would use this wank fantasy. Mrs Hudson’s wash days, with the sheets drying on the line on sunny days, almost certainly, with the extra aural stimulation of the flap and snap of the sheets in the breeze, the creak of the taut nylon washing line. An imagination like John’s could turn such things into the sounds of the sails and the rigging.

Sherlock resumed the pull on his own cock, close-fisted, trying to capture the described sensation of John-the-sailor’s expert fellatio. Well, all he had to do was remember it really. John was indeed very good at the art.

*

_John is sucking and sliding his lips and when he can, he is swallowing to provide extra pressure. His hands are pressed to the pirate’s leather-clad thighs and he is making filthy, filthy noises of humming pleasure. He likes having the Captain’s cock in his mouth, and he absolutely loves the view, looking up through his lashes, of the Captain with his head thrown back, his arms stretched wide so he can hold on tight to the rope netting all around the crow’s nest._

_The lieutenant pulls off the Captain, partly so he can hear the Captain’s helpless mewl of disappointment, but mostly so he can devote a little time to licking and licking and licking the leaking of slit of that majestic cock…_

*

 _Majestic._ Sherlock felt equal parts pleased as fuck about the term, and embarrassed that he should be so easily flattered. But still. _Majestic._

*

_John licks and licks, then rubs the end of the captain’s cock all round his lips before swallowing him down again. He looks up now to see the Captain looking down at him, those aquamarine eyes darker now, like a summer sea in storm._

_“Take it, lad. Take it.” Brainstorm begins to thrust his hips, fucking into John’s mouth, and John only moans and opens wider, feeling the head of that cock bumping against his tongue and palate. He doesn’t gag, only sucks in time with the slide. One hand leaves the Captain’s thigh and caresses the Captain’s balls, which are sticky with the saliva and pre-come that dribble from the Lieutenant’s busy mouth. John swipes his fingers over the Captain’s bollocks, making the pirate groan and thrust harder, and he gathers up the moisture and then he is sliding a finger back, tickling the pirate’s perineum – the Captain tries to spread his legs wider but is limited by his breeches around the top of his thighs – and finally back. The lieutenant presses a wet finger to the Captain’s tight hole, and rubs, and then slides in._

_The captain’s moan is wholly involuntary and wholly wanton as he fucks John’s mouth harder but also pushes himself back on the lieutenant’s finger._

_And then John crooks his finger, brushing perfectly against the little spot inside that Captain Brainstorm, for all his cleverness, never knew existed. John teases that little buried treasure and he sucks and he takes and takes what the Captain wants to give him, and he loves it, but it’s the Captain who is undone. Hips jerking – into that hot mouth, onto that clever finger – and head thrown back, and he comes, roaring untrammelled ecstasy that rings out among the sails._

*

Sherlock didn’t know how he didn’t come right then, except that John was still far from done. John was licking his lips and had pulled his cock out of his pants, stroking it, but in the story, the Lieutenant was kneeling in front of the pirate king and was yet to get off, and Sherlock was pretty fucking certain that the point of this story was for John Watson (both imaginary and real versions) to orgasm. This – the pirate king’s orgasm – was only part of the building pleasure for John.

Expert in oral sex. Clever enough to delight the pirate king. Only, Sherlock remembered, Brainstorm had accepted John’s challenge, to make him come _twice_.

Sherlock stroked his own exposed cock more, then stopped to fondle his own balls because, well, yes, more story to come. As it were. Oh, fuck, yes.

*

_John, kneeling and grinning with satisfaction between the Captain’s knees, is hard and uncomfortable in his white breeches, but there’s an odd pleasure in the unsatisfied pressure of it, too. Anticipatory. The Captain looks down on him with hooded eyes, struggling to catch his breath but still laughing like the very devil._

_“Twice, you said, lad,” he pants, eyes sparkling bright._

_“Aye,” agrees John, “But you should take off your coat.”_

_Brainstorm throws his head back and his arms out, presenting himself for disrobing. His softening cock is hanging outside his breeches, hardly looking ready for another round yet, but he’s clearly game for it._

_John rises and first, undoes the leather belt, hung with a cutlass on one side, a good stout knife on the other. Clearly he’s not seen as any kind of threat as he lays the belt and its armoury on the floor of the crow’s nest. Next, he pushes the coat from the Captain’s shoulders, and drapes it over the wall of the crow’s nest. He turns back to the Captain and presses close; leans up to kiss and then bite that long column of pale throat. Brainstorm, laughing, lets him._

_“The salient part of foreplay,” he says scornfully – or it would be more scornful if he wasn’t so breathless, “Is **fore**. What kind of sailor doesn’t know fore from aft?”_

_John ignores the taunt. He kiss-bites the throat, the muscular chest, then places his hands against the linen over the pirate’s pectorals. Curls his fingers._

_Pulls and tears._

_And before Captain Brainstorm is quite aware what is happening, his shirt has been torn in two down the front, and the shoulders of it dragged down, and this cocky British officer has trapped his arms in the fabric, twisted the remnants of the shirt at Brainstorm’s back, and tangle-tied the shirt in the rope webbing behind him._

_Captain Brainstorm is now tied to his own ship._

_His eyes spark dangerously and his lip curls in a snarl at the upstart lad, but the man isn’t looking. He has crouched down, positioned his shoulders under each of Brainstorm’s calves and then pushed up, taking the Captain’s legs up and wide with him. As he rises, John places his hands under the pirate’s thighs then calves and in moment he has lashed the pirate’s splayed legs to the rim of the crow’s nest, with the ropes that are usually used to lash the lookout to his post in stormy seas._

_“You’ll die for this, dog,” snarls Brainstorm._

_“You’ll have your second coming before then, Captain,” says the Lieutenant jauntily, “As promised.” Already, John is fondling the Captain’s cock and the Captain, for all his indignation and anger, is responding. He flexes his hips up, pushing his cock into John’s hand._

_John leans forward to capture a bared nipple in his teeth, and the Captain gasps and arches, pushing himself into the lieutenant’s mouth. One of the lieutenant’s hands is smoothing over the Captain’s ribs and hips, stroking the ink-decorated skin (tattoos of anchors and sea serpents and hounds; a great key on the left side of his chest). With his other hand, John plays with the Captain’s cock – not stroking it yet, but rolling it in his hand, rubbing his thumb over the slit, using his fingertips to draw the foreskin up and down, light and maddening, before slipping his fingers underneath, to cup the Captain’s bollocks and tug lightly on them. That part is difficult – the Captain’s breeches, pulled taut across his thighs, are in the way, but with his legs spread wide and tied in place, it’s not possible to pull them further down._

_John, however, is a resourceful sailor. He plucks the Captain’s knife from the ground and, as the Captain starts to tug on the cloth that binds him to the webbing, John drops to his knees and, carefully and quickly, slices the stitching on those breeches, stem to stern. He tugs, and the tight cloth parts, leaving the Captain’s naked hips and thighs, his bare arse and hanging balls and thickening cock, exposed to the sea air._

_John doesn’t look up at the Captain until he has put the knife aside and leaned up to take the pirate’s prick into his mouth and swallow it down again. He is suckling on it, feeling it grow thick in his mouth again, using both hands to squeeze and fondle the Captain’s gorgeous arse, before he looks up past the expanse of pale, muscled, tattooed skin, to that face, looking down at him, outrage and desire competing for dominance in his features. The hat has gone, and long hair falls in waves over the pirate’s brow and eye._

_“Fuck lad,” the Captain says, opting for desire, “You’re a wonder.”_

_*_

_Jesus, fuck, John’s a wonder,_ thought Sherlock. His trousers were tugged down to his thighs now and he was vaguely resentful of the fact that he was pulling on his own cock instead of being tied to rigging and being attended to by the new recruit. Never mind that clearly, clearly, there was no way John would ever get the drop on him like that, not unless Sherlock wanted him to, and never mind that the Captain probably only had the one pair of breeches. He probably did have spares, since he was obviously so attentive to his personal hygiene. Or he’d get someone to stitch these ones up later. Or wear John’s and make John walk around the decks bare-arsed, because that seemed like a pretty fucking wonderful idea as well, and they should try that at Baker Street one warm afternoon…

And there was John, hard as fucking anything, cock straight up in the air as John stroked himself. Sherlock shifted a little, so he could keep stroking himself while he watched John do likewise, because, holy fuck, how had he ever thought fantasies were a stupid, inaccurate, tedious waste of time. John was clearly a goddamned genius.

*

_With a twinkle in his own eye, John pulls off the Captain, rubs his thumb over the crown, and then licks his way down, underneath the hot shaft, over the Captain’s bollocks, under his arse, where John spreads the pirate’s arse-cheeks and burrows his tongue in to where his finger had provided such surprising pleasure._

_Captain Brainstorm squirms and pants and swears and makes incoherent noises while the British officer teases and plays with the sensitive pucker of his arse with lips and tongue. Those strong hands are wrapped around the Captain’s bare thighs now and John pushes up into that cleft and nuzzles, licks, pokes his curled tongue into the tight hole, then licks some more. One hand leaves the thigh and starts to fondle the Captain’s balls again, then strokes his cock, and the Captain is whimpering and jerking his hips, once more seeking a rhythm – forward into the hand, backward onto the tongue._

_And then the glorious, glorious… glory of it all stops, and the Lieutenant emerges from the Captain’s soaking wet and oversensitive undercarriage to crowd up close between his legs. He is squeezing at his own cock through his white breeches. He presses himself along the Captain’s feverish body, and kisses and bites that strong stomach and chest, up to his throat, and he says hotly into the Captain’s ear:_

_“Permission to board, sir?”_

_Brainstorm flexes his whole body towards this upstart naval officer, this brilliant Lieutenant, this man of the Crown who has run away to be a pirate, and he gasps out, “Aye, aye, lad, Permission granted. Now **fuck me**.”_

*

John’s hand was now flying up and down the mast of his cock, his feet flexing on the edge of the table, his hips rising as he fucked into his own hand. Sherlock knew most of this by inference, and he _was_ watching John, he _was_ , but his eyes were half closed and he was imagining himself spreadeagled in the crow’s nest, cock achingly hard. He’d even stopped touching himself when imaginary-John had stopped playing with the Captain, trying to keep in the story as John told it.

Sherlock hoped the story meant he could touch himself again in a minute, or he might possibly get some kind of pulmonary embolism in his dick.

*

_John positions himself, holds the Captain’s right thigh (the leather is still creaking) with one hand as he guides his cock into the Captain’s tight, wet hole with the other. And then he is seated and rocking, fucking the pirate in short, sharp, shallow bursts._

_Then he grips the pirate’s thighs, holds him steady, and starts to fuck Captain Brainstorm as he has never been fucked before. Long, slow, hard strokes; short, fast ones; hard, fast, deep one._

_The Captain’s cock, jutting up between them, is huge and red and slick with precome spilling from the slit, and the Captain – arms tied to the webbing, legs tied to the lookout – is moving as much as his bindings will allow, flexing his powerful chest and his narrow hips. His head is thrown back and his expression is a revelation of lust and joy because nobody has ever thought to take the Captain in his own ship like this, and it’s fucking brilliant._

_The Captain’s cock is bobbing and thrusting into the air as the Lieutenant is grunting and fucking up into him, making sure he bumps and bumps and bumps against that perfect, sensitive, X-marks-the-spot inside, until, with a cry, the Captain is coming again, hot spurts shooting up his body and John’s body, spattering them both with come as the Lieutenant’s balls tighten and he…_

*

John cried out hoarsely at the sudden, unexpected and dear-fucking-god- _fantastic_ sensation of Sherlock’s eager mouth around his prick, sucking and licking and sucking and sucking and sucking as John came and came and came.

Sherlock, as he sucked and moaned and swallowed while kneeling between John’s legs, was stroking his own cock, fast, faster, _oh sweet Jesus_ , until he spasmed and came all over the side of the sofa while John was still arching and coming into his mouth. Perfection. Just. _Fuck. **Perfection**_.

And then the two men lay there in a spent, boneless sprawl, John on the sofa in his shirt, pants around his ankles and his feet on the floor, and Sherlock listing haphazardly on the floor, head on John’s thigh.

After a little while, Sherlock, mastering the art of speech once more, asked, “How does it end?”

“I think you'll find it just did,” said John.

“Everyone ejaculated, spectacularly,” responded Sherlock, “But what _happens?_ Do you join the crew?”

“I imagine so.” John was giving him a look comprised half mirth, half coyness.

“Of course he does,” said Sherlock, rubbing his cheek on John’s bare thigh, “Brainstorm’s a pirate but he has honour. He said if the Lieutenant made him come twice with the best orgasm of his life, he could join the crew. I assume the Lieutenant was made First Mate.”

John reached down to run his fingers through Sherlock’s sweaty curls. “Of course.”

Sherlock nodded in satisfaction that his fantasy-self wasn’t an idiot. And yet… “I’d never have been tricked into being tied to the webbing like that. And that’s…”

“Not how webbing works,” John finished for him, “I haven’t the first clue how it works, actually. Though… no. Brainstorm let himself be tied up.”

Sherlock nodded, bristled cheek rough on John’s thigh, “Of course. And when I untie myself?”

John feathered his fingers over Sherlock’s ear, his smile grown wide again.

Of course John knew how this story ended. Of _course_ he did. On those nights long after… after all that other horror, when he had moved back at Baker Street but he and Sherlock weren't together yet, he'd lie on his bed in the late afternoon or the dark of night, sticky and post-self-coitally relaxed, even if not quite sated, and there would be a few quiet moments to wind up the story’s loose ends. 

“After we’ve scared all the seagulls from the rigging,” said John, and Sherlock laughed at the image, “Then…”

*

_The Lieutenant pulls slowly out of the Captain, but he is kissing the Captain’s chest and throat and jaw._

_And Captain Brainstorm twists his wrists and, like that, he is free. He pulls on the simple knots at his legs but instead of putting his feet to the bottom of the crow’s nest, he wraps his legs around John’s waist and pulls him closer._

_He kisses his new crewmate, deep and hard, and when he has left the Lieutenant breathless, he takes him by the chin with his strong, long fingers, and looks into his eyes._

_“You searched a long time for me, didn’t you?”_

_“Aye, aye, Captain,” says John._

_“You’ve wanted me all your life.”_

_“Aye, aye, Captain.”_

_“You swear your fealty to me?”_

_“Aye, sir. Hand, sword, heart and mind belong to you now, Captain.”_

_“Aye, it does,” says the Captain, and he kisses the Lieutenant hard again, possessive, before moving to bite on John’s neck and sucking a bruising mark into the skin. “And there’s your brand to prove it. First Mate.” His grin is lascivious at the double entendre. The naval deserter, now pirate, will be servicing – and being serviced by – his Captain regularly from now on._

_“Thank you, Captain,” breathes Lieutenant… no. First Mate Watson._

*

There was a final part of the story John didn’t tell Sherlock, partly because he was embarrassed by his own ridiculous attitude, and partly because he was jealous as fuck sometimes, and he liked this coda.

*

_The Captain holds First Mate Watson against his sweaty, sticky, mostly naked self with arms and legs and makes him stand still while he bites and sucks red bruises all over the sailor’s pale body. He glances over the nest to the decks below._

_“Billy Bones!” he cries out in a strong, strident voice._

_Below, a tall, skinny man with a scrappy beard and sleepy eyes looks up to the crow’s nest._

_“Wotcher, Cap?”_

_“You’re fired,” says Captain Brainstorm. He pulls John against his chest again, possessively, and John watches with satisfaction as the lanky git is picked up by the rest of the faceless crew and thrown overboard._

_“Now,” says the Captain, squeezing handfuls of his new First Mate’s bare bum, “Show me that trick you do. What X is it that marks the spot?”_

_And John Watson, Pirate, very happily shows his Pirate Captain how it’s done._

*

 

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I am *perfectly* aware of the double meaning of 'roger' in this situation. And isn't it jolly indeed?


End file.
